A Different Means
by hannah0faith
Summary: Claire, John Watson's niece, is staying at the flat in London over the Summer. She finds herself accidentally entangled with dangerous people and it's up to Sherlock to save her and John!
1. Chapter 1

"First of all, let me express my deep grievances for your situation, Ms. Frederick, but have you any relatives over the age of eighteen?"

"I…I have one."

"Alright, we'll contact them and ask if it's sufficient for you to live there while we sort out the situation, could take a few months. It would be safe to say about the expanse of summer. And what is their name?"

"John, John Watson."

I twiddle my fingers. My gaze flitters to the seat beside me, across the row, where he's sitting. It's been three hours, only two more left to go. An over-primped flight attendant with a snug uniform rolls a cart past. She didn't ask if I wanted the big chocolate chip muffin I've gotten since I was a child. I decide not to mention it. He looks up, I snap my head back to my lap and pretend like my hands are interesting. This is a fun past-time for a five-hour flight, flirting with the cute boy in the next row. I've nothing better to do. As I pretend to be occupied, I catch sight of the purple spot on my lower wrist.

I never looked at the boy again till the plane landed.

I am filled with the desire to forget. A new beginning is why I'm here, no secrets, no reminders, just a suitcase full of clothes and makeup.

Eagerly I step off the plane into the cold, crowded airport of London. I roll my blue suitcase across the airport, avoiding eye-contact, looking up to check where I am occasionally. I roll my shoulders and massage my neck, yet the tenseness creeps up my spine like an inchworm every second I live this lie. But I'm going to tell him when I see him, no secrets over the summer; a clean future.

I haven't seen Uncle John since I was eight years old, bedizened in pigtails and pink. He must be older, since he went through the war; I've heard war ages a man more than time. How sad to think of Uncle John as a serious old man, he was always joking before.

Jovi's Pizza Place stood red, illuminated in the street across from the airport, alone in the midst of a long road to city. There are a few tables scattered outside, red and white umbrellas covering them vibrantly. Beneath a particularly crooked umbrella I see him, blonde with a few grays, stout and urgent. He looks up to acknowledge the brunette, plain teenager walking his way, giving a smile and meaning it as much as I can. All of it rushes to my head, like an explosion, and I can barely breathe.

"Hello Uncle John," I say. He stands to greet me, his eyes widening. The first thing he says,

"My goodness, you've grown." He gives me a big hug, which is terribly awkward because I'm three inches taller than him. He steps away to take me in again, "it's very nice to see you again.

"How was your flight?" he asks, sitting down and gesturing for me to join him.

I laugh a little, to break the ice and say, "long, but I never seemed to be bored."

"How fortunate for you," a deep, brooding voice answers from behind me. I gasp and clutch my heart, then turn around. Standing there, towering over me, is a curly black-haired gentleman donning an ominous trench coat. Uncle John quickly intervenes,

"Sorry, Claire, I forgot to say. He's my roommate Sher-" Interrupting Uncle John with a brisk sigh,

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes," he holds out his hand and stares down at me. I look to John with a glanced, to see if he's joking. He's not. I shake Mr. Holmes hand and smile brightly,

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes." He doesn't answer, only nods and rapidly joins us at the table. I can see Mr. Holmes better now. He has a long, shapely face with prominent cheekbones and sharp nose. His eyes are shockingly white-blue and invasive.

"John," he says to my uncle clandestinely, "Lestrade found Kerry Brooks, dead, over a porch a few hours ago." He speaks so fast I can barely understand.

"How terrible," I say and shake my head at the death he speaks of. Sherlock shoots his vibrant eyes towards me and looks me up and down. His squints, then back to John, with an even faster speed,

"Anderson. I need you to come with me.'

"Now hold on," John puts his hands on the table, "now my niece has just came from a long flight, I haven't seen her in ages and I would like a little bit of peace, thank you very much."

This curious, dark man nods, unsatisfied, and sits back in his chair. I gaze at him unintentionally; he is by far the strangest man I've ever seen, though I can't say why. He looks at his watch, and says abruptly,

"You have fifteen minutes for this 'peace,'" he relaxes in his chair and stares at John and I, waiting for a conversation to begin. John jumps up impatiently and grabs my luggage.

"For god's sake let's go."

Uncle John helps me load my luggage into the taxi. Sherlock peers closely behind. Something about him chills me and is intriguing at the same time. Before he steps into the cab, he ruffles his curly locks, lifts his collar, and checks around him suspiciously. Did he expect someone to be watching or was he just dramatic? Abruptly John glanced around as well, and stepped closer to me, as if protective. I turned where he was looking and saw only a flurry of cars down the street, a blinding light show of blinkers. He guided me into the car first, putting me snugly in between Sherlock and himself. Sherlock's glare was burning through my skull. I was afraid to even turn my head, as if I would disturb the beast. A very handsome beast at that...I moved on to other thoughts.

"So Uncle John," I began anxiously as the tiny cab lumbered down the busy night streets of London, "Where do you work?"

"I'm a doctor in this little clinic...quite routine and a bit exciting..."

"That's nice," I answer awkwardly. Because I felt his stare, I turned to the man of mystery, "And you?" He turned his head out the window and when he spoke, I felt a steeping burn in my chest.

"Consulting Detective." His voice was darker than his appearance and deeper than his eyes. I didn't speak for a few moments, if only to curb the amazement I felt. Who was this man?

"I've never heard of that before."

"That's because there's never been one before," he answered, wholly annoyed with my incompetence.

I didn't ask what that meant, but I greatly wanted to know. He flipped out a black phone and began typing on it speedily. Oh I get it, he's in his rebellious teenage years…

The rest of the ride was without daunting, I had the chance to catch up with my Uncle about his work, his return from the war. I found it easy to ask him questions. Then the tables inevitably turned, and John asked,

"And how have you been doing?"

My answer was the same answer I give every time I am asked that question,

"Fine."

But the scarily perceptive car neighbor wouldn't let that answer slip by me.

"What was that?" Sherlock asked, as if he had realized something.

"Fine," I repeated with the same distinctive tenor of apathy. He then gave me the most intrusive inspection with his bright eyes, even more so than before, and I felt my cheeks reddening.

"Sherlock, do you have to-" John was rubbing his temples.

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes but what are you looking fo-"

"Of course, how rude of me," he suddenly interrupted, quickly breaking his stare. He had found something that he did not want to discover. My bruises, my seemingly-well placed clothing, the bit of extra makeup under my chin, and the piece of yellow paper sticking from my purse. I habitually rubbed my right arm, which he pretended not to notice.

John, on the other hand, leaned over and said,

"He's like that. He can know where you live by looking at you. He's a very good detective." John was trying to hide something; I could tell he wasn't giving the whole story. This wasn't a good detective. This was a…psychopath? No one could be that good.

The black little car came to an abrupt stop. I couldn't see out the window past Mr. Holme's curly mane, so when I got out, I found myself upon my very first crime scene.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello, freak." As soon as Watson, Sherlock, and I climb under the caution tape, we hear the snarky insult. I assume it's directed towards Mr. Holmes. I look up. Watson stuffs his hands into his pockets like he's holding back an urge. The satirist is a brown skinned, slender young woman, with wide black eyes and crooked bottom teeth.

"Sally," Sherlock addresses her, obviously hooked with disdain. I rub my hands against my coat, the tension is thicker than pound cake. Sally, takes a threatening step toward Sherlock, and sizes him up.

"Giddy for another homicide, are we?" she scoffs, a cruel smirk. I now understand the urge Uncle John is holding back. It's the urge to slap her in the face.

"Is it that obvious?" Sherlock coolly delivers, slightly pushing her aside and walking ahead. Watson nods his head at her and follows. I am inclined to shadow, when Sally puts her French manicured hand in front of me.

"Sorry, can't let anyone unauthorized get in there."

Past her hand I can see a puddle of fresh blood collecting at the bottom of the steps of this white house, a group of white-clothed people surround something on the porch. I shudder and clutch the sides of my jeans, fully wanting to take Sally's offer. Uncle John lightly laughs and pushes Sally's hand away,

"She's my niece," he says demandingly, guiding me past her.

"Doesn't matter." She stops me again. "This isn't a theme park." I snap my eyes to her, surprised, did she just insult me? A voice suddenly stops us all.

"What's going on?" He is donning a gray dress shirt tucked into black pants, looking semi-official. He is a little older than John, but much taller, and freshly shaved. There is an aura of kindness to him, and walks over, brown eyes inquisitive.

"Freak, here, thinks he has a plus one invitation," says Sally, crossing her arms and giving me an up-down gaze.

Instead of noticing me first, he sees Sherlock and Watson.

"Glad you two finally made it," he says, I think playfully, and shakes both their hands. "Oh, and who is this?" he smiles, friendly, holding out his hand. My hands are still trembling when I go to shake his, but the warmth of his grasp calms me slightly.

"She's my niece, Claire," John affirms.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Inspector Lestrade. Just call me Greg."

"Ah," Uncle John points to the crime scene, "Did you mind if she…?"

"Of course not," he says grimly, glaring at the circle of people, "But it's especially gruesome tonight, if she doesn't mind."

He says it as if they do this every night, like a frequent happening. I'm starting to wonder what goes on around here. Sally licks her teeth and laughs.

My legs feel like thin sticks as we walk closer to the stench of blood and flesh. The only lights are tall lamps set up by the crew, they slightly illuminate the scene, casting shadows on the "Consulting Detective's" face, enhancing the cheekbones, the jaw, the furrow of his brows as he thinks deeply.

Once I get close enough to actually see the bare, insipid feet, I recoil, but find myself in Greg's arms. I didn't even realize he was behind me.

"It's okay," he reassures. I nod, unable to speak, breathing so hard I can hear it above the rest of the crowd.

Why the heck am I at a crime scene with a dead body on the first day of my summer vacation? This is really screwed up. But I don't want to turn back. In a way, excitement is what I really need right now, a little something fresh to wash away what happened. Speaking of wash, a pale, greasy haired man kneels down in front of me to wipe down a step. He raises his head, and his expression is confusion.

"Who are you?" he asks, his sharp nose turning up at the sight of a teenager. Greg helps and beckons me up the stairs,

"A friend, Anderson."

The head of the body faces upwards, staring into a starless sky, the look of shock still plastered in his eyes, which are bulging and bloodshot. The skin appears drained of all life, and the corpse's hands are clutching his side. Uncle John, gently removes the hands, which show a deep-sets stain of dried blood on his shirt.

I forget to blink so my eyes water and I clench my jaw so hard that my head hurts. I'm nearly cutting off circulation to my hands the way I hold them together.

"Stabbed, twelve-inch blade, by the looks whoever did it stabbed him twice, maybe three times, in the exact same spot, been dead for fourteen hours, considering blood loss." John stands up and looks at me with realization,

"Are you okay?" he asks. I can't choke out an answer so I nod, sort of smiling. "Good, good…Sherlock? What have you got?"

So know I get to see what this guy can really do. If she calls him a 'freak' he must be a genius…or a psychopath, like I thought before.

Sherlock, who had been leaning over and prodding the carcass, stood, a head taller than anyone else. He shook his head which ruffled his own mop of hair, and smiled slightly. Why is he smiling? There's a dead man on the ground…

"Inspector," he started, rather proudly, "I believe the neighbor two doors down is your culprit. No need for brute force, she's a simple woman."

No one said a word. He's crazy. But the people around me started cleaning up, moving things, covering the body as if Sherlock's word was gospel. Inspector Greg Lestrade walked to Sherlock, arms crossed, revering in him.

"Well now," a thick cockney accent, "Aren't you going to tell how you knew it?"

"I don't know," he answers simply, "I observe."

Observe what? Is he mad? I slightly move my feet to let the staff through as they lift the body. The spine limps like spaghetti when it arises. There's a lump in my throat as it's carried away, a hand drops and hangs lifelessly from under the black tarp.

Uncle John sighs; I can tell he's seen it all before from the way he watches.

"And what did you observe this time?"

Everyone around takes a breath, as if preparing for a long speech. And Mr. Holmes delivers.

"The shirt he's wearing is gingham. No man on this street would be caught dead wearing a gingham shirt, no pun intended." He stops to grin at his own joke. "It was a gift, a dear gift from the friend who's just moved in down the street. A romantic friend, actually. They played around a bit in the living room, which is right through this window. See that? Check for fingerprints on the padlocks you'll see I'm correct, Anderson." He casts a condescending glance on Anderson, who laughs ignorantly, but checks anyway. "Fly is unzipped, but buttoned on top? Murderer was in a rush. The shirt is not stabbed, only the skin, which means he was shirtless when speared and the shirt was then placed on quite conveniently after. He died in the living room; there are traces of blood on the felt tips of the rug. The knife was a six-inch blade, am I correct, John?" My Uncle nods, while yawning. "Right, hunting knife. You'll find the weapon concealed in the underwear of the victim, why? To try and a fain suicide. Overall you got an overly sloppy, southern murderer who had never done it before. But my friends!" He suddenly slapped his hands together and turned around, whimsically, which incited me more to believe was a lunatic. He seemed to be enjoying this. "The question of the hour is, why? Why? Why kill your lover a few days after meeting him?" John invites me to relax against the porch post, which I accept, and we lean together till Sherlock finishes. As he explains the motive, I lean over to John and whisper,

"Is this…is this normal?"

John laughs, "Yes."

Sherlock is nearly done, then he spits out,

"Also, the man had a tattoo of "Kate" on his left wrist, the murderer's old lover…which has faded about three shades, so it's about five years old. The murderer is twenty-three, and the victim is forty-two."

Utter silence. Is he finished? My chest is shaking from the freezing cold wind and the site has nearly cleared out. The only people left are Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, John, and me. He looks around and finds solace in the amazed faces.

"That was brilliant." I can't help myself, "That was bloody brilliant." I step up and openly express my admiration. "I mean, I've never seen anything like it before, where did you go to school?"

The hero of the day looks at me, and slightly smiles.

"I like her, John."


End file.
